


No Protest

by pendragonfics



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: 'Lass' is the Only Pronoun, Beorn's House, F/M, Fluff without Plot, Maps, Reader has no name, Reader is also half Dwarf and Hobbit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 10:43:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19392478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendragonfics/pseuds/pendragonfics
Summary: A tired cartographer travelling with Thorin's Company is swayed toward sleep by only the words of Dwalin Fundinson.





	No Protest

It was late. The sun had set long ago, and after the last of dinner was digested, you were left alone at the table. The rest of the Company and Beorn had taken their leave to their rucksacks and sleeping bags. However, you studied a map. It belonged to Beorn, and with blank parchment and a careful hand, you copied it. Even though the day had been long already, you keep at it, your unsteady hands steadily mimicking the lines onto the map you were making. The candles surrounding you flickered, burnt near to stubs, the light cast small, shadows long.

“If you stay like this, lass, you won’t be ready for what tomorrow brings ye.”

You startle, your quill dragging across the map, and the surface of Beorn’s tabletop. Quickly, furiously, you rub at the ink, mopping at it with your shirtsleeve, and with a blackened forearm, you see whom had snuck up to you.

“You frightened me, Master Dwalin.” You shake your head, as if to shake the surprise that had quickened your heart.

“S’not my intention,” he responded, voice gruff. You wondered if that was because he rarely spoke, or an effect of his ferocious battle cries. “But you best be resting. All but Thorin, and me and you are asleep.”

You blink. “It cannot be that late,” you deny, fishing your timepiece from your jacket. But alas, it’s an hour until the midnight. “Oh.”

“Come now, lass. You can finish your task in the morrow.” Master Dwalin gestures to where the Company lay, and tidying your things, you join his side. With one hand, he scratches at his beard, the other, a candlestick holder. “With hands like yours, the task will be fast done.”

You blush at his remarks, but as he held the light source, you were glad to be swathed in shadows. “Your words are too kind, Master Dwalin.” You thank, voice low. You both walk past the Company, the dwarves and Master Bilbo all in their nightclothes, wrapped in their bedrolls, asleep.

You realise then, as Master Dwalin stops, that his bedroll is beside yours, and his beside Bombur. “Now, you best be swift to sleep,” Master Dwalin tells you, his voice stern.

You feel a wash of something come over yourself. Perhaps its fear? Somewhat. You’re used to feeling that these days, more than any other feeling that you’d ever felt in your life. Before joining the Company, you worked for the Took family, tending their gardens, reading books about mapmaking when no one’s eyes could find you. You jumped at the chance for adventure alongside Master Bilbo when the wizard Gandalf asked.

“Please, promise to not laugh, Master Dwalin.”

He shook his head. “I would never.” He said, “…what be on your mind?”

You move to your bedroll, sitting at its edge, facing him. “There’s a reason I’m still awake. I - it was a very long day today, and I am not used to such thrills. And - and,” you catch your breath, unable to form words. “and racing to this refuge did nothing for my nerves.”

“And yet, you live, lass.” Master Dwalin states.

You nod. “I - I suppose I did survive it. But,” you look to your hands, unable to meet Master Dwalin’s eyes. “I’ll never be able to match your strength, nor any other from the Company. I’m just…me. A half-breed.”

The candle that Master Dwalin holds grows low, the wax melting at the base of which he holds. Steadily, he comes to your level, sitting upon his own sleeping bag. Sitting, you’re both the same height; you can see his tattooed hands, the cuffs that line his ears, his beard, glowing in the light. The air of fearsomeness that shrouded his features seemed to melt away, and for a moment, almost a whole minute, you wondered if you were seeing a different Master Dwalin.

“No matter what they call you, lass,” he says levelly, “don’t call yourself that.”

You blink, startled. “But I am!” you cry out. At that, Bombur turns in his sleep, and aware of the Company nearby, you lower your voice. “I’m made of the stuff of Hobbits and Dwarves, and both find me strange. I suppose that’s why I joined the Company, Master Dwalin.”

He shook his head once more, placing the candle upon the ground between you. “Did any Dwarves tell you this themselves?” he asks.

His tone is a challenge, and you’re tired enough to accept it. “I - I don’t remember.”

“Well, if you do remember, lass, I’ll take their names, and their heads.” He says. You’re almost startled by those words, but before you can retort, he snuffs the candle. The inside of Beorn’s house is thrown into the same darkness that it is outside, and quietly, he moves into his bedroll for the night’s rest.

You’re near to the edge of dreaming when you hear, “…rest well.”

You don’t remember those dreams, because when you open your eyes, it is almost as if you never slept. And although you do feel less tired than before, there’s a new sensation that you can’t quite put a word to. As you open your eyes, you realise that the sun is barely risen, and the snores surrounding you confirm that the Company sleep on. However, there’s a snore, quite close to you, that you don’t take long at all to realise whom of which it belongs to.

Glancing down, you see that you are still in your sleeping bag, but outside, there is a broad forearm wrapped around you, holding you close. You’ve never seen his tattoos at this angle, but you know exactly _whose_ arm it is.

Master Dwalin.

You try to move from within his grasp, but he senses your movements, tightening his touch. If it were any other dwarf, you would struggle, but as you lay there, in his arms, you think. Your heart, the same heart that raced so violently yesterday before seeking refuge, and once more when Master Dwalin had professed those things to you, does not race now. Your heart beats as it normally does, the rhythm of your life.

You must have moved once more, because Master Dwalin speaks, voice touched by sleep, “It isn’t proper, lass, but -,”

You shake your head and turn in your bedroll to face his torso. It’s warmer here, and you move closer to it, resting your face against his beard, his broad chest. “Unless you wish me to, I do not protest, Master Dwalin.” you whisper.

He laughs, softer than that you’ve heard at the fireside, or passing conversation. It’s small, intimate. “Ah, lass. I’d never ask you to protest.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr on as @chaotic--lovely, and if you want to request a fic, check out [@pendragonfics](https://pendragonfics.tumblr.com/request_conditions)! ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿


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